One great boink
by katchuri
Summary: Complete. Sequel to Five Lousy Kisses. Series Two episode "Something Terrible Part 1" takes place between that story and this.


Spike stood and stared at the garden gate for a moment.

He clicked his fingers, but it stubbornly remained shut. Perhaps he was expecting too much, he supposed. But after yesterday's kiss behind the newsroom, the manner of which could perhaps be termed "a snog-and-a-half", he and Lynda had proved that their relationship did have some magic to it, despite the sputtering false starts of the week after the cocktail party.  
However, that magic didn't seem to extend to opening gates any more.

Barging the gate with his hip, Spike strode up the path to Lynda's front door, and his fist hit the doorbell.  
He whistled the refrain to _My Girl_ as he waited for the door to be answered, and tapped his fingers against his thigh.  
There were approaching footsteps behind the closed door, and then it swung open to reveal Lynda, clad in a dressing gown and what appeared to be another pair of brushed cotton pyjamas.

Spike drew breath, but before he could make remark on her attire, which was just begging for comment, Lynda cut in coolly:

"What have I told you about whistling, Thompson?" She arched an eyebrow.

"You just put your lips together and blow…" said Spike, hopefully.

"I'll cut your lips off," threatened Lynda.

"Yeah?" Spike felt himself warm to the banter.

"Yeah!" said Lynda, but the glint in her eye told him she was enjoying this just as much as he was.

"But then I couldn't do this," said Spike and leaned forward to kiss her. His lips, rather frustratingly, met her cool cheek. When he looked sideways he could see the imprint of bedclothes fading away from her skin. She clearly hadn't been up for very long.

He drew backwards, suspiciously.  
"Where's your Mom?" he asked. There surely had to be some reason why she wasn't prepared to let him kiss her in public, again.  
"Church," said Lynda, curtly. "It is Sunday, you know."  
"But…" said Spike.  
"But Mrs Maxwell next door would love to tell her anything I get up to on the doorstep, dressed in my pyjamas," said Lynda. "Are you coming in?" She stepped backwards, away from the door, and opened a clear passage for Spike to take into the house.

The door shut behind him, and Lynda turned around.

"Now she can't see us," she said. And she stepped forward and wound her hands round the back of his neck.  
Spike leaned forwards, trying not to grin from ear to ear, and kissed her.  
After yesterday, when he'd really and truly had to count his fillings just in case one had been loosened by Lynda's oh-so-eager tongue, he still wasn't quite sure what to expect when he kissed her. Her mum was at church, so that meant that her dad was… was… was… actually, he didn't give a stuff where her dad was at that given time, if she had a dad… who cared. Things had just got decidedly interesting in the hallway. Lynda's slightly freshminted tongue had virtually reached his tonsils, and he was starting to feel a steady throb building in his brain as most of his blood headed south. Spike practically grabbed her face, cupping it in his right palm as his fingers slid into her hair, and pushed another deep kiss into her. He shifted his hips, and wondered if he could maneuver himself into a standing position that would hide the evidence but continue to let him kiss her in the manner that he wanted. But then that thought was thrown out of the window too, as one of Lynda's hands laced into one of his rear belt loops, and pushed lightly on his rear end to draw him closer.  
To hell with it, thought Spike, and pushed closer still. If she thought she could cope with this then he certainly could. He attempted to mould his body to hers as he pressed her back up against the front door. There was a momentary check in Lynda's muscles -­ he could feel her tense slightly ­- and then she continued kissing him. But the kiss had become decidedly more relaxed, and had a lazy, Sunday morning air to it. He moved his tongue a few more times and then pulled back, leaning his forehead against hers, and they breathed in unison.

The pounding in his ears started to fade, and his control -­ which had been on the verge of snapping -­ suddenly seemed reachable again.

Lynda - how could the girl be so unaffected? -­ peered over his shoulder to check behind his back.

"No flowers this time?"  
"Nah," said Spike, falling into the rhythm of their banter again, as he brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck, and took a small step backwards, seeing as the kissing clearly wasn't going to continue for a while at least. "Since I blindfolded the guide dog, that old lady's had a whole new security fence put in. I couldn't get over it with my pants intact."  
Lynda actually laughed. Not an out-loud guffaw, but certainly a muffled giggle.  
"So, no present at all then?"  
Spike vaguely considered replying "Other than a pack of three?" but he didn't quite think Lynda would see the funny side. Besides, he didn't have three on him. Just the one, and that had been making a ring imprint on the leather of his wallet for several months now.  
"Aren't I present enough?" he settled on, as she pulled away from him and the door, and swept up the hallway with her dressing gown flying out behind her.  
"Well, I can certainly unwrap you," said Lynda, to the stairs. She swung round and caught him open-mouthed after her remark. He shut his mouth, and swallowed, painfully. Yet again he wasn't exactly sure where this was going. Damn the girl for being so contrary.  
"Jacket," said Lynda, and held out her hand. He shrugged himself out of his leather, and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and their eyes flew to meet each other. Several heavy seconds passed without either of them making a move. Spike swallowed again.  
Lynda turned on her heel, and marched to the kitchen, hanging the jacket on the back of the chair. "Coffee?" she called over her shoulder.  
"Yes please," Spike's voice quavered slightly, and he fought to control it.  
"Go on up," said Lynda. "You know the way."

He supposed, by that, she meant her bedroom. Second door on the right after the top of the stairs, her mother had said on Friday night. He'd found it all right. And it hadn't been the most comfortable of exits, via the window. He hoped that this time Lynda might let him use the stairs, but he was rapidly finding that he couldn't predict anything with this girl. She could drive him crazy with just the arch of her eyebrow.

Spike had been right, he discovered, when he surveyed the scene in Lynda's bedroom. She hadn't long got up. The duvet was haphazardly rumpled and pulled to one side, and an open book lay on the pillow. Over in the fish tank, Sullivan the goldfish swam in lazy circles. Spike went over and watched as Sullivan attempted to enter the dark hole in the castle at the base of the tank. The goldfish circled again and again, making darting movements but never quite managing to get inside. Just as it looked like he might achieve his goal, Lynda appeared at the bedroom door, two mugs of steaming coffee in her hands.

Even now, a full week into their official relationship, Spike was still amazed at how this girl could strike him dumb with just the curls on her head. They bounced around her shoulders, brushing against the fabric of her dressing gown, and in the harsh artificial light of the landing she appeared to have a slight halo. He swallowed, and took a step towards her.

A mug of coffee was pressed into his hand as Lynda swept past, apparently oblivious to the feelings she was provoking in him. She sat herself down on the bed, and blew gently on the surface of her own coffee, her lips a perfect "O", before taking a sip.

"So, aren't we going to get on with it?" she enquired, slightly sharply, her eyes bright on his face.

"Whaa…?" said Spike, wrong-footed again. He gulped audibly, his mind simultaneously blank and racing.

"You haven't got the file with you," said Lynda. "Did you want to go through the notes on the council meeting, or not?"

"Oh," said Spike. "I, er…"

"Don't tell me you need help with the history homework," said Lynda, with a roll of her eyes. "I've told you before, Thompson. I can't write the essays for you, even if you do give me a wax crayon for authenticity." She tossed her hair slightly, and seemed to be pretending to be annoyed.

"Can we compromise?" asked Spike, starting to find his rhythm again. What was it about this girl? "Could you do it in felt tip instead?" He took the few paces to the bed and sat down beside her, then scrunched himself up to press his back against her wall. A poster emblazoned with a giant "WHY?" made a slight flapping noise behind him.  
Lynda scooted herself backwards, and brought her knees up underneath her chin.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, their arms pressed together. And their hips, for that matter. And breathed together as seconds dropped by.  
Spike found himself begin to get slightly light-headed, but he couldn't decide whether the feeling was caused by the shallow breaths he was now taking, or if it was down to his proximity to Lynda.  
She turned to him, her head tilted slightly and he could feel her breath on his cheek. His insides fizzed.  
"So, why did you come by," whispered Lynda, her eyes starting to take on a softer look.  
Spike smiled, he hoped in a bit of an impish manner.  
"Why do you think?" he said, and leant forwards.  
However, it was Lynda who finally closed the gap between their mouths, and in the first few moments of the kiss Spike actually felt that she might devour him whole.  
Lynda's lips writhed against his own, and her tongue wriggled into a position where it could brush its weight against his in a manner that sent Spike's bones into meltdown.

Somewhere mid-thigh there was a splash of hot liquid. Spike jumped back, and tipped more nearly-scalding coffee onto his jeans. A good bit landed on the hem of Lynda's pyjama leg, and she winced. Her hand came down to pull the offending bit of hot and soaked material away from her leg, brushing against his knee as she did so.  
"Ouch," she said, mildly. "That hurt."

"You could take them off," said Spike, without quite realising what he was saying. The patches of hot liquid on his jeans felt like they were searing his skin. It took a full three seconds, as Lynda turned to him, open-mouthed, for the penny to drop about what he'd just said. He spluttered.  
"I, er, I mean, um…" he could feel the heat rising in his face, rapidly matching the temperature of the coffee on his legs.

Lynda, who seemed to have managed to get over her initial shock at the comment, looked down at his lap in concern.  
"You got hit by more than me," she said, uncharacteristically quietly. "Perhaps you should take yours off?"

Spike spluttered for a second time. He didn't quite believe what he was hearing.  
"But… but, your Mom…"

"Won't be back for a couple of hours at least," finished Lynda, remarkably calmly, Spike thought. "She normally stops for a cup of tea with Mrs Baxter after church. If you hang your jeans over the radiator they'll be dry again by the time you leave."

Spike's fingers hovered over his belt buckle. Was she really saying it was all right for him to be partially unclothed, alone with her in her bedroom? How on earth was he going to hide anything, if it appeared?

"Unless, of course, you're scared I might take advantage of you?" challenged Lynda, and arched her eyebrows. That was Spike's undoing. Before he could really think about what he was doing, he was undoing his zip and wriggling out of his partially sopping jeans, mentally thanking his father that he'd done the underwear washing relatively recently.

It was only when he'd kicked his shoes off, and padded over to the radiator to hang up his jeans next to Lynda's usual array of tights, that it occurred to him just how vulnerable he now felt. His jacket was downstairs, and all he stood up in was a shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. If she got a sudden whim to kick him out of the window again, he was going to be in a lot of trouble.

Lynda, for once, wore a slightly dazed expression. "So, um…" she glanced over at the fish tank. If this had occurred in the news room, Spike might have decided to make more of the fact that Lynda Day was finally speechless and acting decidedly embarrassed. But, in the privacy of her bedroom, he had to admit that he found it rather endearing.

However, she seemed to be recovering almost as soon as it happened, and the old glint in her eye appeared to be coming back.

"I've got a skirt you could borrow, if you like?" she offered, bouncing off the bed and stretching her hand out to the wardrobe door. "It's just your colour…" A vision of Colin, dressed as an Arab, floated in front of Spike's eyes. He shook his head to clear it, but the words "you're just helping out on the launchpad" echoed through his brain.

Spike swallowed hard, then grabbed Lynda's hand gently to still its movement. If he was purely launchpad material, he was going to have to take as much as he could possibly get before she went off in her rocket. Starting now.

"Lynda…" his other hand went up to scratch the back of his neck. He decided to broach the subject gently. "Are you sure _your_ legs are all right? You did get coffee on them too."

"Oh, they're…" started Lynda. Spike moved forward, tilting his head towards hers and gazing at her lips to make his intentions clearer. "…still wet," finished Lynda. She shivered slightly under Spike's gaze.

"Let me help," Spike practically whispered, using a lower tone that he knew had worked on women before. Or, at least, one woman, or at least a girl. The other one might have laughed, but he preferred to brush that over in his memory.

He inserted his fingers into the waistband of her brushed cotton pyjamas, and yanked them down, still managing to hold Lynda's gaze as he did so. A small fanfare blew in his head, somewhere between his eyes. He bent slightly, so his head was level with the mid buttons on her pyjama jacket, and pushed the trousers lower, not daring to look down. He fought to control his breathing, which was threatening to become laboured, as his finger tips brushed the skin at the back of her knee.

Lynda stiffened. Spike, starting to worry that he'd over stepped the mark by a long way, started to straighten up. His knees started to brace themselves for the jump to her back garden, and the inevitable run home in the cold.

"Spike, don't…" she said, and there was a plaintive tone to her voice. Spike began to move further away from her, his emotions crashing around his ears. "…stop…" said Lynda, with decidedly more feeling. She gave him half a second for her meaning to sink in, then wrapped her arms around his neck, and brought her lips to his with surprising force.

Her mouth opened under his, and Spike plunged his tongue between her teeth with reckless abandon, winding and writhing around her gums and trying very hard not to groan into her mouth.

Pounding rose up in his ears, and he brought up both hands to cradle her head, and push his fingers into those wonderful curls. A warmth spread upwards from his lower stomach, bubbling up into his chest and wrapping itself around his accelerating heart. If it was possible to give a Cheshire Cat grin while eating Lynda's face off, he'd have done so. As it was, he just poured ever-increasingly shakey-lipped kisses into her willing, lusting jaws, and reveled in the fact that she appeared just as eager as he was.

His knees started to soften as her arms circled his back, rubbing gently at his shoulder blades, and pulling him closer in. Her tongue pulled back slightly to tickle at the tip of his, which previously he might have read as a signal to pull back and slow things down – but her clinging form said other things to him, and he made the unconscious decision to go with it and see where it would take him.

It was becoming increasingly obvious to Spike that he couldn't continue with this standing up. Lack of oxygen caused by Lynda's mouth was making him dizzy, and his legs were getting warmer and wobblier every moment this continued. Gradually, without breaking their entwined limbs, he inched her around and started to push gently against her to direct her towards the inviting bed.

Lynda's arms suddenly released him, and began to struggle with something behind his back. Spike's eyes flickered back open. This wasn't in the plan. Surely, after what she'd said, and that straining body pressed against his, she was completely into this. Without breaking the kiss he directed his gaze upwards, and found she was trying to shrug out of the sleeves of her dressing gown. He brought his arms up her back, to aid the struggle and there was a soft rustle as it hit the floor. Moments later his feet threatened to trip over the soft substance of it as he reached the bed, and the edge hit his shins. He pushed at Lynda gently, and the contact between their mouths was severed briefly as she flopped backwards onto her bed with a squeal of springs.

Spike, for a moment, considered flopping down on top of her prone form, but he settled for lying full length along side her, chests touching, He rubbed his nose against hers, and gave her short, gasping kisses as his free hand moved up and down the brushed cotton expanse of her back. He'd never realised that he could find brushed cotton pyjamas so erotic. Things were going, well, well. Almost too well. There was still a good portion of his brain that expected to be pushed off and slapped away, followed by a quick trip out of the window.

Then Lynda's bare leg entwined with his, and all his worries started to flutter off. His hand crept around, and slipped to Lynda's warm stomach. He moved his fingers gently across and back, gripped a hip briefly, and circled her navel.

He pulled back from her face, trying to control his breathing, as by now she must realise just what an effect all of this was having on him. Lynda's eyes, large and luminous from his perspective, gazed steadily back at him. Emboldened, Spike reached for the bottom button of her pyjama jacket, and gently eased it out of its hole.

He moved up to the next one, and tilted his head sideways to kiss the soft skin of her neck. Lynda gasped slightly, then dug her fingers into the small of his back, putting a few inches between their torsos, but keeping their legs entwined.

Spike supposed that this might be a sign to slow down, if not stop, but he really didn't think he was capable of doing so. Hell, he could barely think at all, given how little blood was currently reaching his brain.

"Lynda…" his voice cracked with the effort of speaking. He couldn't remember how to phrase sentient speech. He licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, and tried again. "I… er… um… you…" he took a deeper breath and tried again. "You… want…? Do you… want?" he tried not to make his voice too pleading, but inwardly wondered if it was possible for him to step backwards from the brink she'd brought him to.

"I, er…" said Lynda, and swallowed hard. "Yes…I do want…" she left the words unspoken, but they hung in the air nonetheless.

"But…?" said Spike, sensing that there was one in the torrid air between them.

"You know what you're doing, don't you?" said Lynda, in a much smaller voice.

Spike almost wanted to laugh. His reputation must have been vastly exaggerated, no doubt by Frazz, Barry Crowther and others. But, then, there'd been a time in his life when he hadn't minded that, when Lynda Day had just been another name on his list of classmates.

"Er," he said, stalling slightly. "Kinda…" If you counted a couple of back alley fumbles with Debbie Raymond after walking her home, and an abortive attempt with Charlotte Rendell the night he'd met her. "And you…" he let the question, if it was even that, hang in the air.

"Don't…" said Lynda. And raised her chin defiantly. No hint of embarrassment about her.

"What?!" spluttered Spike, before he could help himself. "You mean James Armstrong…"

"No," said Lynda. And ran her fingers up the side of his thigh. Spike groaned aloud and came very close to biting the tip of his tongue off. With a slight push of his shoulders Lynda rolled on to her back, and he moved with her until his form covered hers, with a soft ping of mattress springs.

"I'll be gentle…"

He bent his head to kiss her neck, while simultaneously shifting a kneecap into a position where he could start to prize her legs apart. But Lynda again pulled back and stilled his movements by placing a hand on his chest.

"There's just one thing, though, Spike," she said. Spike waited, not daring to move in case she was changing her mind.

"Er… yeah?" he tried to put a hint of challenge into his voice, but found it a hard ask.

"Yeah," said Lynda, and gave a wicked little smile. "Could you take your sunglasses off first?"

They both convulsed, and at that moment Spike lost any sense of nerves. He wasn't going to be expected to perform, she wasn't going to tell her mates about it afterwards and laugh. This was natural. This was real. This was Spike and Lynda, and it was going to be wonderful.

He reached up with a forefinger, and jettisoned his sunglasses to the other side of the room, then bent to kiss her again. He reached with a free hand to remove the now-essential rubber from his wallet, which he'd positioned on Lynda's bedside table when he'd shed his jeans, and reflected that he might have to acquire a few more now if this was what going out with Lynda Day was going to entail. Not that he was complaining.

Lynda followed the progress of his hand with her eyes, and made an almost audible gulp when she spotted what was in his hand.

"Ok?" breathed Spike, and tilted his head to brush his lips against her jaw line.

He was rewarded with another hard swallow from Lynda.

"Ok," she muttered softly, and moved her head to allow him further access to her neck, exposing an expanse of creamy skin. Desire roared in Spike's head. He touched the tip of his tongue to her earlobe, then nibbled little kisses down to her breastbone.

There was a soft sigh from Lynda, and Spike found himself sinking, with her thighs now encircling his hips.

Lynda's hands grasped the bottom of his shirt and she pulled upwards, momentarily severing their fevered contact as the material went over his head.

Something in Spike snapped, as her fingers touched his bare chest, dipping in and out of the curves of his flesh. He gave up his search for the third button of her pyjama jacket, and just yanked at it. Three buttons ripped, and scattered, as he brought his heated skin into touch with her naked chest. There was a sharp intake of breath from both of them at the contact, and Spike wriggled a little lower.

"How'm I…going… to… explain… that… to… Mum…?" gasped Lynda, through laboured breaths, as her hand raked through his hair. Spike found his skin was almost humming with anticipation. He circled his tongue, and tried to mumble "you'll think of something", but found his mouth was far more importantly engaged. He slid one palm upwards to cover her breast, and was rewarded with what could almost definitely be described as a heated moan from Lynda. A hot flash of pure lust drove straight through Spike's lower stomach and nether regions. He knew he couldn't have stopped what was happening now even if a marching band swept through the room, or if Colin, Kenny, Sarah, Frazz, Mr Sullivan and Mr Kerr had all appeared at the door demanding Lynda's attention. He ground his crotch into Lynda's, gasped in unison with her at the friction, then took her knicker elastic between his thumb and forefinger and pulled downwards.

Over in the fish tank, Sullivan the goldfish had finished his third investigation of the button that had landed near his tail fin. He swam a lazy circle of his tank and encountered the small round object again, attempted to eat it in case it was food, but only ended up fitting his fish lips around the edge. He lost interest again, and headed back to the inviting depths of the castle at the bottom of his tank.

He wriggled his tail fin as he approached the darkness of the entrance, and took the plunge through the centre of the hole. The light dimmed immediately. Sullivan found this a little perturbing, so he swam out again.

However, three seconds later he found the allure of the castle entrance too much again, and swam inside. Yet again his world dimmed, and out he swam. He repeated this process for a good few minutes until he realised that the water in his tank was rippling rhythmically and violently. So violently that some base instinct that predated his long tank-bred ancestry drove him to sink to the bottom of the tank and bury himself in the gravel until the storm had passed.

Sullivan hit the gravel surface with such force that several pieces of gravel floated up into the water. He wriggled his fins and buried himself as deep as he could manage.

Gradually, he realised that the rippling had come to a stop, and worked himself free, floating off into the tank again with a fleeting look back at his castle.

"So," said Lynda, her eyes bright. She smoothed a lock of stray hair back behind one of her ears.

"Yeah," said Spike, hoping his heart would calm down at some point before lunch.

"That was…" said Lynda, and stopped.

"Yeah." Spike raised an eyebrow, and attempted to make his voice both suggestive and challenging. He felt it sort of worked.


End file.
